Pilfered from the depths of despair
a flicker of light that burns through
the flesh of my hand. It slips and slides
like a tidal wave through New York, a
destruction of mass proportion left
in its wake and a conscience of a knowledge
that it’s the fruit in the Garden of Eden.
Tampered, not by the hands of higher beings,
but by the unruly fingers of mere mortals
desperate for a taste of the unquenchable
thirst of finding the answer to the universe.
Does the answer lie within a God, or is it
a number conceived after seven and a half
million years of thought — 42? To be or not
to be, a question worth contemplating but
is it not because I think, therefore I am?
Published in the anthology, Anima Methodi.
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